


fill in the holes you've made

by duskendales



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:05:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskendales/pseuds/duskendales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>All she hears are screams, and all she sees is red as she runs for her life, through rooms, through corridors and straight into the woods.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	fill in the holes you've made

_\--i begged you to hear me, there's more than flesh and bones  
let the dead bury the dead, they will come out in droves  
but take the spade from my hands and fill in the holes you've made_

.

.

.

.

.

The glow of the full moon still leaks through the curtains that have been shut tight, and Lydia sits straight in her bed, pushing the covers over her head to block the light (but even through the barrier of silk, even through the barrier of her eyelids, all she sees is red, _red blood smeared all over his face_ ).

 

_Hale_. It tastes like ash on her tongue, and sounds awfully a lot like hell.

 

-

 

There are blue flowers on the bed sheets the next morning. She tosses them to the floor in a flash, hands crawling at her skin (suddenly her neck feels too hot, and she remembers his breath there, she remembers his burned fingers running across her cheek).

 

She tries not to be scared, because for God's sakes, she's fucking stronger than that. Lydia steps into the shower under the column of ice cold water and talks sense into herself. _It's the drugs_ , she says while her body covers itself with goose bumps, _and one more horny teenage boy with an unhealthy obsession about her._ A cold wave of relief washes over as logic and cool water hit her. She steps out and drapes a fluffy towel around her shoulders, her fingers with methodical precision pulling it down her body to get rid of every little drop. That's where she sees it, on the inside of her thigh – an oval shape, like a small bruise, or a teeth mark.

 

And then she screams.

 

-

 

She asks Allison about the boy from their maths class, but he's not there today, and Allison doesn't listen anyway, sending distressed looks towards Scott (“Trouble in paradise?” Lydia asks, her perfectly glossed lips curling into a sneer, but Allison just bites her nails and ignores her sill). Lydia thinks she's lost count over the times her  _friends_ have dismissed her or belittled her problems these past few weeks, and she's slowly getting angry, but mostly just so dreadfully tired, and lost, and alone.

 

The boy doesn't show up in any other classes, and she decides he must be ill (or dead, like Peter Hale, but that certainly does not make them the same person, because that would be totally sick and stupid and just  _no_ ). She spots Jackson in the corridor, an unseeing look in his eyes as he walks right past her with no indication that he's seen her. Her heart breaks a little more, but she smiles all the same.

 

The girls come over and compliment her new Fendi bag and something finally feels good; they even ask if she wants to come to that little party Charlotte is throwing (“Of course it's girls only, so there'll be mud masks and vodka, and please wear something pink”). As much as she usually despises their company, this time she actually contemplates going, especially as it will be also Allison-free (grounded girls don't really do illegal parties, no?) and perfectly teenage for her current needs. She's had enough drama for a lifetime.

 

-

 

She drinks vodka like it's water, the taste awful in her throat but steadily flowing all the same. The girls are already kissing, and one of them is puking in the bathroom, but all Lydia feels is a hot breath on her neck and a slight tingling on the inside of her thigh. She takes another shot from the bottle, her mind screaming for some reaction from her body, something else than that awful feeling  _again_ . 

 

She doesn't realize anything until Charlotte is straddling her lap and smiling a dazed, drunken smile at her and licking her lips  _in a dreadfully wolfish way, his eyes burning holes in her body, sharp nails digging into her hips like niddles, and his lips are moving closer, and between them there are two sets of shiny, shiny teeth, so white and sharp, ready to rip her skin apart--_

 

Lydia claws at his hands and tries to throw him off of her, but he's too heavy, too tall for her small form to handle. She screams piercingly and Peter scowls, twisting her wrist in a strange angle, and her scream turns into a shriek of a wounded animal. Her hand is throbbing with blinding pain, and she feels tears welling in her eyes as she continues to scream and kick and wriggle beneath him. 

 

“Be still, my little red,” he whispers way too close to her face, and so she spits at him, her heart beating in her chest a frantic tattoo. Her action draws a shrill hiss from him and she thinks she sees something akin to disappointment in his eyes when he raises his hand and slaps her across the face. She feels the coppery taste of blood on her tongue.

 

Somewhere in the back of her mind she's aware of the girls screaming but the only thing her eyes see is him, all she feels is his hot loud breath on her face, the rise and fall of his chest that's crushing hers. He grabs her legs and tries to hook them over his shoulders, and suddenly there's a wave of coldness filling her insides and a bile rises in her throat as he tugs at her legs to pry them open. With new found strength she pulls them away from his grip and forcefully kicks him in the face ( _he opens his snake-like lips, sharp teeth all red, and he smiles with a mouth full of blood_ ).

 

All she hears are screams, and all she sees is red as she runs for her life, through rooms, through corridors and straight into the woods.

 

-

 

It's like her dream, or a memory from just after she was bitten, the gentle brush of leaves against her bare feet, the branches scratching her arms and legs, skin covered in soil and dirt from her countless falls. Her legs and her wrist and her face are killing her, blinding pain pulsing everywhere, but still, her fear is stronger even than that, propelling her to move farther and farther, away from her nightmare.

 

She might be simply running from one nightmare to another, she muses absentmindedly as she stumbles again and falls on her wrist with a shrill scream escaping her lips. Her body crumbles on her, its protest so loud and clear she doesn't dare try to move anymore. She closes her eyes and tries to steady her rapid breathing, to overcome the nausea that's been threatening her for what seems like forever now. She wonders if he's going to find her.

 

She is going to die there anyway.

 

-

 

When Lydia wakes up, the sun is already high up, shining brightly through the trees. And there are voices, too. She only hears bits and pieces of conversation, her head throbbing and vision swimming as if she is being swayed back and forth (she must have hit her head somehow, but she doesn't remember almost anything, her memory a black hole with flashes of white teeth and red, red blood).

 

“I'm just wondering, what the fuck she's doing here,” says a girl, definitely a girl, but she's standing too far from Lydia to get a glimpse of her face. Suddenly in her line of vision appears another face, and she recognizes it from somewhere, she's sure of that; a boy with a mop of curly blonde hair and striking blue eyes. He must be from school, from her class even. Happiness hits her like an electric shock, and she fears she might start crying again from relief, because it's not him, _it's not Peter_. She's safe.

 

She moves her uninjured hand forth and grasps the boy's jacket, her eyes fluttering wider. “Please help me,” she rasps, clutching the leather for dear life. Confusion flashes through the boy's eyes (Lydia Martin never begs, never as much as asks for anything) and he turns around to the girl who came with him.

 

“What do we do with her? It doesn't exactly look like a wolf job to me--”

 

The girl huffs in annoyance. “I say we just leave her be. We don't need any more trouble with Derek getting all the wrong impressions, and you know he will.”

 

Two large tears fall from Lydia's eyes and she curls her fingers around the leather jacket in an unfaltering grip. “Please,” she doesn't even recognize her voice, it's so hoarse and broken from her screams, “I'll do anything, just get me out of here”.

 

The boy doesn't even try to free himself from her grasp, just bites his lip in silent contemplation. At last, he drawls, “We owe the guys one. I bet they'd be glad to see her alive.” Lydia doesn't see the other girl's reaction, but then there are strong arms around her picking her up as if she weighs nothing at all. She carefully wraps her arms around the boy's neck, marveling at the amazing heat his whole body gives off. His pace is fast and steady as if he knows the woods very well, and the shuffling of leaves behind them indicates that the girl is following them too. Lydia closes her eyes; she feels so drained she doesn't even care where they are taking her, as long as it's far from here.

 

“Oh God, Isaac, stop!” He turns around and cocks an eyebrow at his companion. The blonde girl points at Lydia's thigh, hugely exposed now that her skirt has ridden up when he picked her up. Isaac sucks in a breath at the sight of the bite and mouths a curse.

 

“Doesn't look like a wolf job, huh?” mocks the girl, taking a closer look at the mark with guarded curiosity.

 

Isaac shrugs, the passed out girl trembling a little in his arms. “She's immune, isn't she? It shouldn't be a problem anyway.”

 

“The problem's not her turning, you idiot,” Erica scoffs. “The problem's _who_ did this to her. And I'm positively sure it wasn't anyone from our pack.”

 

Isaac picks up his pace. “You know, I think we have bigger problems than some omega loser trying to make himself a pack in the woods, don't you think? Like, for example, a bloody kanima who walks around killing people like it's no big deal. And Lydia's going to be fine, it's not like she'll bleed to death from that--”

 

“I think you might have hit yourself in the head too.” Her voice is dripping with venom. “He leaves a beaten, bloody girl with only a single small bite, on our territory, and keeps her alive, just like that, for fun? Well, to me it looks like a fucking message.”

 

He stops in his tracks and closes his eyes, a pained expression blooming on his face. “Fuck.”

 

-

 

When Lydia wakes again, there is a Hale hovering above her and she might have screamed if she'd still have her voice.

 

It was _not_ supposed to be like that.

 

-

 

“Whose job is this?” he asks and it's everything but pleasant, especially if you add up his eyes sometimes flashing red (familiar, _too familiar_ ). She tries to be strong, but it's hard to forget that this is the man who's tried to kill her on numerous occasions, who probably murdered his very own sister and stalked Scott's house with his little pack of psycho friends. After all, he's a fucking Hale.

 

For a moment she contemplates playing dumb again but he doesn't seem to be an easily-persuaded kind of guy, so she quickly ditches the idea. Instead she closes her eyes and pretends to pass out, though he doesn't seem to like that either.

 

He growls.

 

Her eyes snap open and she wonders if she's having a concussion or has taken the wrong pills, because _this cannot be fucking real._

 

-

 

“Who did this to you?” He reaches for her but she recoils from his touch as if he was on fire, and she hurts her already injured wrist in the process. She moans but forcefully pushes his hands away (they're like Peter's, so large and sharp fingered, but the face is all Derek's; it's Derek's frown and there might be something resembling concern in between his furrowed brows when he looks at her like that).

 

Derek gives a pained sigh and flexes his jaw. “Just tell me and as soon as you do you'll be tucked safely in your own bed, I swear. But it's important that you tell me everything you know. ”

 

“Peter”. Her voice is small, ashamed.

 

“Peter who? Do I know him?”

 

_Oh yes, you fucking do._

 

-

 

_She is the red riding hood, with her cape billowing in the wind, its color mingling with her hair as she runs through the woods. The wolf is following her, she hears his sharp paws hitting the ground, she feels his hot breath on her neck but she never looks back. She runs to her Granny's house; it's so, so close, she can almost see it through the trees; but her knees buckle and the wolf catches her in his cruel hands. But now the moon is gone, and the wolf is no more, its red eyes turning green while his mouth finds her neck, placing a warm kiss in the hollow of her throat._

 

_This time she doesn't scream._

 

-

 

Her heels click-clack against the high school hallway floor as she strolls through the crowd looking more beautiful than ever. Her skin is glowing and eyes shining, perfectly full lips glinting with pink gloss, a blue summer dress clinging to her body in all the right places. She feels surprisingly good, even though not a single girl from the party looks her in the eye, their own faces sunken and hollow. Allison catches her in between classes and asks about the weekend, (“'s been good. As always,” she says cheerfully.) Now that Scott is finally back to shagging her, she seems to remember about Lydia's existence, but she's not the one to judge. She's taken too many pills this morning to judge anyone anymore.

 

She walks past Allison and out of the school gates, phone ready to call a cab home (she still has to buy her own car, now that Jackson's Porsche is no longer her prime means of transport). She doesn't have a chance to make the call though, for there is a black Chevrolet parked right before her with Derek Hale inside, the car door of the passenger seat swinging open in a way of a very straightforward invitation.

 

He cracks her a smile that is all too sour to be very nice. “Let's go hunt some ghosts.”

 

She hops inside.

 

-

 

“ _This is impossible.”_

 

“ _I know.”_

 

_She absentmindedly traces her split lip with her finger. “You promised to take me home now.” She pouts her lips smeared red. Derek huffs._

 

“ _A dead man couldn't have bitten you. That doesn't count as an answer.”_

 

“ _Yet he did. It's not my fault your slow brain can't comprehend that.”_

 

_They stare at each other with alike annoyance, brows furrowing and lips pursing, both determined not to be the first one to look away._

 

“ _You're fucking crazy,” he says at last, “I don't even know why I was asking anything of you.”_

 

“ _At least I'm not the one who gets all furry and red-eyed, thank you very much,” she spits viciously. Derek's eyes widen, but she doesn't give him the time to retort. “I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid, okay? And I really want you, hell, anyone who's capable of it, to get rid of him, because I don't think I'll be able to take it any longer.”_

 

_It's Derek who breaks the stare, and she supposes it's an 'alright' on his part._

 

_-_

 

He drives her home and even holds the front door for her to walk first. It feels so very nice (in her current state she can't come up with anything else to describe the feeling).

 

“Have you taken the pills?” Derek asks as they make their way to the kitchen. She simply nods her head, her eyes a bit dazed and legs swinging (but not enough for her not to see his gaze traveling down her skirt).

 

“Do you want something to drink?” Without waiting for an answer she pours them both a glass of whiskey and quickly downs the liquid in two gulps. She then sits by the table, and starts twirling a lock of hair between her fingers. “What now?”

 

Her lack of patience will someday be the death of her.

 

Derek takes a slow sip from his glass and leans on the opposite side of the table from her. “We wait.”

 

And so they do.

 

-

 

When she's three glasses in, she starts to understand why it's usually not advisable to mix pills with booze.

 

She sways in her seat, her head a bit too heavy and her legs weightless and wobbly. When she starts laughing she cannot stop.

 

Derek catches her before she falls to the floor and she easily curls her arms around his neck, her breathing ragged and uneven. He starts to regret all of this, the whole plan a complete clusterfuck. He would have left a hundred times already if the girl hasn't decided to become a very dangerous, insane rag doll in a fucking dress that barely covers her ass. And she is staring at him now with her pupils dilated, an outrageously stoned expression on her face.

 

His own face, on the other hand, can be easily described as fucking pissed off.

 

“You have gorgeous eyes,” she purrs, fluttering her own ones, “really gorgeous green eyes. Did you know that?”

 

He mumbles something and tries to steer her upstairs to her room, but soon opts to simply carry her as her legs don't seem that stable anymore. When he tries to work the door handle he feels her tongue on his cheek and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.

 

As soon as he remembers, he dumps her on the floor and gets the hell out of the house.

 

-

 

Lydia really, really wants Derek to come back, because she really, really wants him to fuck her senseless. And he can't do that when he's not there.

 

She is all hot and tingly and already a bit wet (she couldn't help it when she felt his muscles beneath that flimsy cotton he was wearing and his large hand sliding down her back, so strong and firm the very thought makes her toes curl). She doesn't understand what she's done wrong to make him run away like that.

 

She lies back in her bed, for a split second contemplating getting herself off, but the sound of footsteps on the stairs quickly wipes the idea from her mind. She purses her lips in a triumphant smile when the door opens to reveal a Hale.

 

But it's not the one she wants.

 

(she screams, of course)

 

-

 

She's not strong enough this time, the pills slow her down and her head is swinging; he, too, is much less gentle than before, his claws out and all over her skin in a matter of seconds. She grabs a mirror from the bedside table and smashes it into his face. He howls vengefully, his teeth sharpening and ready to bite her head off. His mouth is bloody once again, but the cuts heal in a flash, a disgusting smile finding its way onto his lips.

 

Lydia cries, because there is no use for anything else; she is already defeated, too weak and dazed to offer any sort of significant resistance. Peter's fingers skim her jawline in a way that would be tender if they weren't clawed, leaving angry red slashes on her skin. She whimpers as he leaves a trail all over her face, up and down, each cut of the same depth – not deep enough to make serious damage but still leave a mark. Tears mingle with blood on her cheeks, as he whispers sweet nothings into her ear, warm breath once again at the base of her neck.

 

She looks into his eyes (blue, so very blue, like a stormy ocean or the sky, and so cruel and soulless), but suddenly they change, blue morphing into forest green, and she cries even harder than before.

 

Derek grabs a blanket and gently wipes her face, one hand stroking her hair as she continues to sob miserably. She doesn't know if he's real or is her sick brain creating illusions again, but she wants it so badly to be Derek, how desperately she needs the steadiness of his touch, the concern in his eyes. His gentle touch never leaves her skin; with a blanket he continuously wipes every last drop of blood from her skin. Her crying slowly subsides; she turns her head away from the mirror – she doesn't want to see the state she's in (the pain gives her a good enough idea about that anyway).

 

He looks ashamed (ashamed for leaving or for showing concern?) but she doesn't pay it much mind; she grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him closer, tucking her head against his chest and tries to steady her breathing. He gently moves his arms around her trembling form and rests his chin on the top of her head. Then he sighs.

 

“I'm sorry,” he whispers, but she frantically shakes her head, still hidden in his shirt. “I don't know what to do.”

 

-

 

In the morning her mother barges into her bedroom and at the sight of Derek Hale's huge body stretched on her daughter's bed she clasps a hand over her eyes and retreats in a flash. She doesn't see the bloodied blanket on the floor, or the shattered mirror, or her daughter's face.

 

That's a relief.

 

-

 

“How long will it take them to heal?” she asks, a cup of steaming coffee in hand. She gives him one too, and when he takes a sip his terrible frown only deepens; she wishes he would stop with the worrying, if only for a moment.

 

“I don't know. A week? Or two? But it doesn't matter, you should see a doctor anyway.”

 

She gives him a quizzical look and purses her lips. “Don't be stupid, it'll be too suspicious.”

 

“You'll say it was an animal.”

 

“It'll get too messy. I'm not going to the doctor, Derek.”

 

He grits his teeth and looks at her authoritatively. “I might actually know someone you can trust.”

 

She rolls her eyes.

 

-

 

The man might be trustworthy enough, but the place smells of animals, and animal food, and she can't help but scowl (she presumes it's partly Derek's fault). The vet inspects her cuts and applies something antibacterial, while Lydia tries very hard not to puke from the smell. When he finishes, he throws her a warm smile and walks her to the waiting room.

 

“Would you mind waiting here for a moment, miss Martin? I'd like to have a word with Derek.”

 

She smiles, obediently sitting down in one of the chairs, while Derek makes his way to the examination room. As soon as the door closes behind them though, she moves closer, focusing her attention on the voices there, trying to pick up pieces of the conversation.

 

Looking back, she'll probably regret it the most.

 

-

 

The shovel feels heavy in her hands, but she holds it with a firm grip. She doesn't contemplate the situation, doesn't arm herself in any other way, doesn't look around the house (if she did, she would see blue flowers scattered on the floor, but she didn't). She closes her eyes, the slashes on her face glinting in the moonlight, red hair framing her head like a halo. There is something truly spiritual about the scene, mythical even.

 

(Persephone descending into hell.)

 

( _Hale_.)

 

Lydia plunges the shovel into the floor, and the damp wood goes off easily, revealing freshly dug soil beneath. She starts digging, and her heart beats faster with each shove.

 

Her hands hurt. She never stops digging.

 

-

 

He is there, like she knew he would be. He's also burned, and bound, and his blue eyes open when her hands touch his face.

 

A slow smile creeps onto his lips, and he whispers hoarsely, “my little red.”

 

Lydia kneels next to him, smeared with dirt and tears she didn't realize have fallen, and stares at him, transfixed to the spot. Her shovel lies far away, forgotten.

 

-

 

“ _You understand that I'm_ a vet _, and this is not exactly my specialty?”_

 

“ _And can you get straight to the point?”_

 

“ _I just wanted to make sure. Very well. I think the cuts might be infected, she must have had a lot of dirt beneath her fingernails-- You should have cleaned it with an antibiotic, before the healing process started.”_

 

“ _Rational thinking isn't very easy when you walk in on a girl who's clawing at her own face, I was lucky to stop the bleeding-- she looked like she was going to rip her neck apart next--”_

 

“ _Does she know much about_ things _? Because leaving her alone with that kind of knowledge might be gravely dangerous. For everyone. She doesn't control her actions, who knows who she'll tell, or what she'll do next? She's a time bomb, you can't take that kind of risk, not now that you're responsible for a pack. Especially with the Argents, and the kanima problem in the picture.”_

 

“ _I'll deal with her. She won't pose a threat to anyone, trust me.”_

 

_Derek hears a sharp intake of breath behind the door and the shift in the sweet scent, suddenly much closer than he's realized. Before he acknowledges the loss, the scent is farther away, then quickly deteriorating. When he storms out, it's already almost completely gone._

 

_As is the girl._

 

_(Tick-tock.)_


End file.
